Evening Primrose

 



 A spoiling light is coiling rime
 to a bell of flesh in chimed release.

 A dance of chance on a mouth for rain
 is soaked to the bones of a thornbird song.

 Flowers sprout from every circuit,
 greeting the vane of a gluttonous aim
 while scratching lunch on tested haunches
 these bloody seasons keen for reason.

 But there’s a look in the eyes
 when the lights go down
 where the wroth is pent on lonely evenings.

 It stars a start in a black-holed heart
 with a minded sight in grey delight…
it bids us think on the stormy brink
 as it slips a disc off the milky path.

 It snipes the gripe of a sleepless dwell
 to scope for hope on nameless rites.

 It's a primal draw that soothes it raw
 so soon up the hill to a humble kill.
 Long with a voice in brooding hood
 with the distance seeping stone to grass.

 It’s somewhere adrift on nightshade,
 love,
 with its visage pairing skull & moon.

 Light-year tombs in towered grins
 splay the fade of a shadowed daze.

 Paints this keep with the green of a weep
 for a spike of nights on rocky hikes.

 Where dark-eyed servants cast in cloak
 by wrenching the gold from gentle folds.
 Between the trees, that trickster breeze,
 from behind us wags the shadow's lark.

 So hearken spark to sundry sense
 through the blackening gaze of a throaty haze.
 So stab the white of the minded light
 with a creeping keep in faceless deep.

 So sky the heart to eat the stars
 & snicker storms off the killing floor.

 The vapid blade of dithered stasis
 tears the rain from a gush of veins.
 Scratches names to bleed the face
 of the blushing seasons reaping weep.

 But there’s a look in the eyes
 when the lights go down
 where the path is paved with praying vain.

 Stars or scars our black-holed arts
 to eye the rain through grey regrets.

 Yellowing days on the mortal coil
 while toiling rites for broken light.
 Spoke of dawn in boiling tones
 on nights that seek the mind to sight.

 Riming chimes of ash on wind
 & facing grace with a taste of age.

 Stoked on the burn
 of a calamitous calm
 we find our shades are drifting on.